Page 25 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Sorry to barge in," she says, barely glancing our way as she heads straight for the bar. "I forgot my recipe notebook and I need it for tomorrow's specials."
I step back from Skye, grateful for the interruption that breaks whatever was building between us. "No problem. I think I saw it near the register earlier."
Loverboy's nose hits the floor immediately, his body quivering with excitement as he begins systematically searching the room. His nails click against the hardwood as he weaves between tables, sniffing frantically.
Skye laughs. "He's got his priorities straight."
"That dog loves his beer," I say, watching as Loverboy enthusiastically licks at a spot near the jukebox. "I swear he can detect a drop of beer from a mile away."
"Loverboy!" Vanna calls, but it's useless.
The dog ignores her completely, his stubby tail wagging furiously as he zigzags across the floor. He pauses near where Reynolds was sitting earlier, circling the spot with increasing excitement.
“I’m heading upstairs,” Skye announces. “I’m about to fall asleep standing up.”
“Night, night, dear,” Vanna says. “Sweet dreams.”
As I watch her walk toward the stairs, I can't help but think my dreams tonight may very well include one very sexy blonde, book-loving goddess.
Chapter 8
Skye
Ijolt awake with my heart hammering. The remnants of a dream I was having still clings to me like dog shit on the bottom of my shoe.
Daniel stood at an altar, Alicia beside him in a wedding gown that looked exactly like one I'd once shown him in a magazine. The details are already fading, but the helplessness—the way my legs refused to move when I tried to run—that feeling is still disturbingly vivid.
My phone says 4:37 a.m. Way too early to be awake... The dream has left me feeling raw and exposed in a way that makes the darkness of the room feel oppressive. In the dream, I was the maid of honor. Standing beside Alicia, holding her bouquet, smiling like my face might crack while Daniel gazed at her with the kind of adoration he used to rain down on me in the beginning.
And my legs. God, my legs. No matter how much I willed them to move, to carry me away from that shit show, they remained rooted to the spot, heavy as concrete pillars. Everyone was watching me, smiling too much, eyes glittering with twisted delight. She got what was yours, those eyes seemed to say. Better luck next time.
I push the covers off and sit up, running my fingers through my tangled hair. I stand up and push back the curtains. The mountains outside my window are still shrouded in pre-dawn darkness, just hulking shadows against a dark sky.
I pull on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, deciding that coffee with extra cream and sugar might wash away the bitter taste the dream has left behind.
The wooden stairs creak beneath my bare feet as I descend to the bar. When I push through the swinging kitchen door, I'm not expecting the light that greets me, spilling across the stainless steel countertops. And I'm definitely not expecting Buck, perched on a stool at the center island, his massive hands carefully creating something small and blue.
He looks up, those startlingly blue eyes finding mine. "Morning, sunshine," he says, his voice a low rumble that fills the kitchen. "You're up early."
"I could say the same to you," I manage, suddenly conscious of my messy hair. "Sorry, I didn't think anyone would be here. I was just going to make some coffee."
"Help yourself." He gestures toward the industrial coffee machine in the corner. "I just put muffins in the oven. Blueberry. Should be done in about fifteen minutes if you want one."
I nod, grateful for the task of making coffee to hide my discomfort.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks as I measure coffee grounds into the filter.
"Bad dream," I admit, not turning around. "You?"
"I'm always up this early," he says. "Best time of day. Quiet. No one needing anything from you. Just peace and coffee and time to think."
When I turn back, coffee brewing behind me, I take a better look at what he's doing. The needles click softly in his hands—huge hands that somehow manage to manipulate the thin metalwith precision and grace. It looks like he’s knitting a hat and it’s small enough to fit in his palm.
"That's really small," I say, nodding toward the hat.
A smile creases his face, softening the hard angles. "It's for the babies at Mountain View Hospital. Preemies mostly. Their heads are tiny." He holds it up against his palm for scale. "Sometimes no bigger than this."
I pull up a stool across from him, fascinated by the fact that this giant of a man is creating something so delicate.
